The Host Family

I remember begging my parents to host an exchange student when I was in high school.  For some reason, I have always wanted to bring people "in."  When they wouldn't get on board with my idea, I found ways around their disinterest by instead sharing my room with a stressed out frenemy, having friends to stay for the summer and hosting Racine on winter weekends.

My first host family... seriously, I am ashamed at not being able to remember their names.  I stayed with them in Puertollano for about a week when I was 15.  I shared a room with the daughter, who, I remember, smoked on the sly out her window every morning and night.  I remember hanging out with her and her friends, eating sunflower seeds on the street corner, talking about boys and dancing.  I remember that the family thought it was "cute" that I always said, "Sí" to more bread, it being the only familiar anything to me.  I remember eating -what I would enjoy now, but then didn't appreciate- cheese, which I held in my cheek till I could excuse myself to the bathroom to spit it out in the toilet.  I remember that my mother was SERIOUSLY convinced that I had been kidnapped by gypsies (Yes, gypsies.)... because she didn't know how to make an international call properly.

And then I returned to Spain, this time to Sevilla, when I was 21.  I remember being dropped off in front of my new home, pushing the call button and being so nervous that all I could say was, "Soy la americana."  Ha!  My dear Lola and sweet brother Manuel took me in as their own.  I remember watching The Fresh Prince of BelAir with them on TV.  I remember when Abuela Manuela would come to town, giving me chocolates and throwing Lola's life into an ugly fit.  I remember when the fun cousins came from Marbella and we got into trouble for playing and singing Alejandro Sanz's songs too loudly.  I remember la Feria, swirling and twirling in the sherry-tinged lights.  I remember taking Manuel to the university to check my mail; and in the process, making his month!  I remember having my bags packed and Manuel grabbing at my legs, sobbing and screaming, "¡Emi!  ¡No te vayas!  Por favo', ¡no te vayas!"  It broke my heart to leave them.

A few weeks later, I was already in Quebec, staying with another family whose names I don't remember.  I do remember eating a salad every night for dinner, because... what else would a vegetarian eat?  I remember that my host-father would make me say French tongue twisters at the table and quiz me on obscure vocabulary.  I remember once being invited into the living room to watch an opera on TV with the family.

And then several years later, I found myself with yet another family in Smila, Ukraine.  I remember that the mom worked as a "barman" and was never at home.  I remember that my host-brother's friends always wanted to come over to look at me and he told them that I was a guest in their house, not an animal in a zoo!  Spasiba!  I remember realizing that I had been given the son's bedroom, pushing him to the couch.  I remember eating pasta with carrot sauce and tea for breakfast a lot.  I remember the golden tea set they gave me for my birthday.

Every welcome was warm, although the level of acceptance into the family seriously varied.  I have been cared for around the world by strangers and I am so grateful.

And now, FINALLY, it is my turn!  I am so thrilled to become Host-Mom to a pair of brothers from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia next week!  (A funny thing is that I could actually be their mother by age.  It is crazy that I could have kids in college, when mine aren't even in elementary school.)  I will certainly strive for the Lola-Manuel-Emi dynamic, but I know that it is a two-way street.

To being a host-family!